The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4

She giggled. “You’re silly. Come back and play.”

But Larten had no time to waste on play. There was only one game of any interest to him now — beat the hangman.

From the alley he took a right turn and had soon left behind the neighbourhood where he’d spent all his life. Though he wasn’t sure of the surrounding area, he had a vague idea of the shape of the city and moved in an eastern direction. That was his quickest route to the outskirts. He didn’t run, but walked briskly, head down, not making eye contact with anyone.

Nobody paid attention to the thin, dirty, bloodied, trembling boy. The city was full of lost, wounded strays just like him.

At the factory, someone finally asked what had become of Traz’s killer. When people realised the boy had escaped without even a half-hearted challenge, they were outraged — nobody had liked Traz, but a rebellious brat like Larten Crepsley couldn’t be allowed to stab a hard-working foreman to death and waltz away freely. A gang took to the streets and was soon joined by dozens of others as word of the murder spread. Life was monotonous in those parts and a chase was a major attraction. Men, women and teenagers joined the workers from the factory, brandishing knives, hooks and any other sharp implements they could find. More than one also took the time to root out a good length of rope. Mobs were never shy of volunteers when it came to the office of hangman.

By the time the mob was fully formed and storming through the streets, Larten was out of danger’s immediate range. Their cries didn’t reach him or alert any of the people he was passing. With no sign of a chase party, he was able to keep calm and carry on at a steady pace.

It never crossed his mind to go home. He knew that was the first place the mob would look for him, but that wasn’t the reason he avoided it. If he thought his parents would try to protect him, he might have returned. If he believed people would grant him a fair hearing, maybe he wouldn’t have fled. If there was any justice in the world, perhaps he’d have thrown himself at the feet of his accusers and begged for mercy.

But nobody would care about Vur Horston. Children in factories were killed all the time. As long as the owners made money, they didn’t mind. But the killing of a foreman was a scandal. An example would have to be made, to stop other workers from following Larten’s lead.

Larten’s father was a thoughtful, caring man, and his gruff mother loved him in her own way, but life was hard and poor people had to be practical. They couldn’t save him from the mob, and Larten didn’t think they’d even try. He figured they would hand him over and curse him for being a fool and losing his temper.

Larten had never heard the phrase, “burning your bridges”. But he would have understood it. There was no home for him in this city any more. He was all alone in the world, and marked for death.

It was evening by the time Larten cleared the city. The sky had been dark all day, and now it began to blacken with the coming of night. There was a cruel bite to the air. Larten had no coat and he shivered in his short-sleeved shirt. He was hungry and thirsty, but the cold was his main concern. He had to find shelter or he’d end up like one of the stiff, frozen street people he’d often seen.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Larten walked along the main road for a while, then took a dirt track. His vague plan was to find a village and lay up in a cowshed or barn. He didn’t know how long a walk it would be, but he guessed it couldn’t be more than a few miles.

If it hadn’t started to rain heavily, Larten would have kept going. Maybe he’d have slipped along the way, twisted an ankle and perished of the wet and cold in the open. Or maybe he’d have made good time and found shelter, stolen a few eggs in the morning and set off in search of a job. He might have scraped by, worked hard, earned some money. Perhaps he’d have lived a good life, married and had children, and died at the ripe old age of forty or forty-five.

But Larten’s destiny didn’t lie in a ditch or any of the nearby villages. Rain soaked him, forcing him to look for immediate shelter. A tree would have been fine, but the clouds looked thundery and he’d heard tales of people who had been struck by lightning under trees. There were no caves that he knew of. That left…

Larten looked around, praying for inspiration, and through a brief break in the rain his prayers were answered. He spotted the heads of tombstones and realised he was close to a graveyard.

Larten had only been to a graveyard once before, one Sunday when he and Vur had trekked to the northern part of town where a large cemetery stood. They’d gone hoping to see ghosts, having heard tales of headless horsemen roaming the rows of graves. Of course they didn’t see any – ghosts mostly came out at night – but they saw plenty of monuments to the dead.

The poor of the city were carted off to be dumped in mass graves, nothing to mark the spot where they lay. Those with money secured a grave. Wealthy people bought tombs.

Graves and tombs were of no use to Larten, but some of the truly rich invested in family crypts, small houses for the dead. If they kept the dead dry, they could keep the living dry too, at least for a night.

Larten didn’t know if this small graveyard would boast any crypts. But on the off-chance he abandoned the path and splashed through sodden fields, fearfully edging his way towards the home of the (hopefully) sleeping dead.

CHAPTER SIX

The graveyard was larger than Larten had imagined, and while it was no match for the lavish city of the dead to the north, there were a few crypts jutting out of the crop of crosses and tombs.

Larten scrambled across the graves, muttering prayers to every god he’d ever heard of, eyes cast low. He wanted to look every which way at once, to check for ghosts, witches, demons. But he thought that if he saw them, they would see him too. By not looking, he hoped no ghosts would notice him, so he kept his eyes on the ground. It was a foolish notion, but it gave Larten the courage to go on.

He couldn’t get into the first crypt that he tried — the doors were sealed shut. There was a chain on the woven copper gates of the next. He tugged at the gates as hard as he could, and the chain gave a little, but not enough.

Larten thought he heard movement behind him. He stood, head lowered, expecting an attack. When nothing leapt out of the growing darkness, he looked around for another crypt, then hurried towards it.

He almost didn’t try this door. It was on hinges and slightly ajar, but it was carved of stone and he doubted he had the strength to move it. But rain was lashing down, exhaustion had set deep into his bones, and the next crypt was some way off. So, with no real hope, he grabbed the edge of the door and pulled.

The door slid open so smoothly that he slipped and fell. Landing with a splash in a puddle of rain and mud, he tensed and peered into the darkness. Maybe the door had opened so easily because something inside had pushed out at the same time that he’d pulled. But if a ghost was lurking within, Larten couldn’t see it.

“Are you mad?” a voice very much like Vur’s whispered inside his head. “Don’t go in there. It’s a place for the dead.”

But Larten was out of options. If he didn’t find shelter here, he doubted he’d find it anywhere. As terrified as he was by the thought of spending the night in a crypt, he had a better chance in there than out here. So, with one last quick prayer, he got to his feet, wiped his hands dry on his trousers, then ducked and entered the crypt.

At first he thought it was pitch black. But he closed his eyes for a while, and when he opened them again he could see fairly well. There were glass panels in the ceiling. That seemed strange to Larten, but maybe some of the people buried here had been afraid of the dark.

He remained by the door while his eyes adjusted, then studied the crypt. There were brick walls on either side, behind which the coffins were stacked. A strange sort of ornamental fountain in the middle. No sign of any ghosts.

Growing braver, Larten moved away from the door, into the centre of the crypt. It was cool here, but warmer than outside and a lot drier. He rubbed his arms up and down, trying to generate heat. He’d have to take his clothes off later to let them dry, but he was wary of undressing too soon in case a ghost rose from one of the coffins and attacked. He didn’t want to have to flee naked through the graveyard!

Larten chuckled weakly at the image. Then his stomach rumbled and he winced. He’d been hungry for a long time, but had been able to ignore it. Now his hunger kicked in hard. If only the owner had come to the factory after lunch. The children didn’t get much in the middle of the day, but a few scraps of bread and some slops of watery soup would have made a big difference. Trust Traz to pick the worst possible time to get killed.

Larten chuckled again. He knew murder was wrong, and he wished he could go back and change this day, but in all honesty he wasn’t sad that Traz was dead. He and Vur had often prayed for the gods to strike down their bullying foreman. He didn’t think too many people would shed tears on Traz’s account.

As Larten approached the fountain, he saw that it was covered in cobwebs. He scanned the strands for spiders – he’d eaten insects before when food was scarce – but they were either hiding or had moved on. Sighing, he figured he might as well try the webs since there was nothing else available. He doubted they’d fill him up – they might even make him sick – but what choice did he have?

He ran a couple of fingers through one of the webs, breaking the strands. Then he twirled his fingers around several times, adding to the webby covering. When it was thick enough to hide his flesh, he brought his fingers to his mouth, shut his eyes and peeled off the webs with his teeth.

Larten gagged on the foul-tasting webs and almost vomited, but then he gulped and forced down the disgusting, dusty strands. After a brief pause for breath, he scooped up more, working his way down from the top of the fountain. He kept looking for spiders or even a few desiccated flies, but no joy.

Then, out of the solemn, sinister silence of the crypt, as he was sucking more of the spider’s silk from his sticky fingers, someone spoke from a spot high above and behind him.

“Are cobwebs a treat where you come from?”

Larten whirled, eyes locking on the wall above the door, the one place he hadn’t thought to check when he’d entered the crypt. Something was attached to the bricks. It was a red-skinned beast, with a pale face and long dark hair streaked with white. Its claws were dug into the bricks and it was studying Larten with what seemed to be a wicked, bloodthirsty smile.

Larten darted for the door, certain he was too late, that the creature would drop in front of him and block his way, before falling upon him and finishing him off. But to his surprise the beast never moved and a second later Larten was in the doorway, freedom a couple of paces ahead of him.

“I would ask you to stay a while,” the creature murmured, and something in its tone made Larten pause. He cast a quick glance upwards and saw that the thing had lowered its head. Only a handful of inches now separated their faces.

Larten squealed and slammed against the jamb of the doorway. But still he didn’t spill out of the crypt and run away. Because the creature hadn’t sounded threatening when it spoke. It had sounded strangely lonely.

“What are you?” Larten gasped.

“Should not the question be who am I?” the creature asked, then released its grip, dropped to the floor and stood. Larten saw that it was actually a man — or at least it had the body and face of one. The red he’d glimpsed was the material of the man’s clothes, not his skin, which – from what Larten could see – was no different to any other person’s.

“Aren’t you a monster?” Larten frowned, eyeing the man suspiciously.

“I would not describe myself as one,” the man chuckled, “although there are many who would.”

To Larten’s surprise, the man extended a hand. Larten’s heart was pounding, but it would be rude to refuse this gesture of friendship. Sticking out a trembling hand of his own, he accepted the man’s offer of a handshake. The man’s grip was loose, but Larten sensed immense strength in the fingers.

“My name is Seba Nile,” the man said, “and this is my home for the night. You are more than welcome to share it with me if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Larten said weakly, feeling like he was in a dream. “My name’s Larten Crepsley.”

“I bid you welcome, Larten,” Seba said warmly, and without releasing the boy’s hand, he led him back into the shadows of the crypt.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seba Nile sat on the floor, brushed away dust, then produced an apple from within the long red cloak he was wearing. He split the apple in two with his sharp but clean fingernails and offered half to the boy. Larten wolfed down the fruit. When Seba saw how ravenous the child was, he gave him the second half of the apple too. Taking it with a brief nod of thanks, Larten sat crosslegged like Seba and munched down to the core, chewing the pips and all.

“I am guessing that you have not eaten in a while,” Seba noted drily. “I would give you more if I had any, but I do not. You can hunt with me later, or I can bring food back for you if you prefer to remain where it is warm and dry.”

Larten grunted and picked the remains of a pip from between two of his teeth. Squinting at Seba, he said suspiciously, “What do you want?”

“I do not want anything,” Seba replied.

“Then why are you helping me? Why let me stay here and give me food?”

Seba smiled. “I am simply being hospitable.”

“I don’t believe you,” Larten sniffed.

“You should never call a man a liar unless you are sure,” Seba said coldly.

“You’re living in a crypt,” Larten said. “You can’t be up to any good if you’re staying in a place like this.”

Seba raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you, young pup!”

Larten chuckled weakly. “I suppose you could.”

“Why are you here?” Seba asked. When Larten’s lips drew thin, he added, “You do not have to tell me, but you look troubled. I think you will rest easier if you are open with me.”

Larten shook his head. “You first. What are you doing here?”

“I often stay in places like this,” Seba said.

“You sleep in crypts?” Larten asked.

“Usually.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a vampire.”

Larten frowned. “What’s a vampire?”

Seba was surprised. “You have not heard the tales? I thought, in this part of the world… Have you perhaps heard of the living dead? The walkers of the night?”

“Do you mean ghosts?”

“No. Vampires are…” Seba considered his words.

“Hold on,” Larten said, a memory sparking somewhere inside his head. “You’re not a bloodsucker, are you?”

“Now you have it,” Seba beamed.

“I remember Vur telling me…” What? Larten only had a dim recollection. Vur had told lots of tales. It was something about creatures who drank blood and lived forever.

“There are many legends about vampires,” Seba said. “Most are unreliable. We do drink blood to survive, but we are not killers. We do no harm to those from whom we feed.”

“A monster who doesn’t kill?” Larten was sceptical.

“Not monsters,” Seba corrected him. “Just people with extraordinary powers. Or weaknesses, depending on how one looks at it.”

Seba uncrossed his legs and stretched. “I cannot recall my exact age, but I am more than five hundred years old.”

Larten grinned — he thought it was a joke. Then he saw Seba’s expression and his smile faded.

“All vampires start life as humans,” Seba continued. “We turn from the path of humanity when another vampire bloods us.” He held up his hands and Larten saw small scars at the tip of each finger. “My master cut my fingertips, then his own, and pumped his blood into me. That is how I became a vampire.”

“Why did he do it?” Larten asked.

“I wanted him to.” Seba explained how vampires aged at one-tenth the human rate, meaning they could live for several hundred years. He told Larten of their great strength and speed, the codes of honour by which they lived. He explained about the hardships, the way humans feared and hunted them, how sunlight killed them after a few hours, their inability to have children.

Larten listened, entranced. Like most of his friends, he believed fully in a world of ghosts and magic, demons and witches. But this was the first time he had been exposed to the reality of that world, and it was far different than he’d imagined.

Seba told Larten some of the many myths about vampires. Crosses were meant to frighten them. Holy water could burn them. You had to drive a stake through a vampire’s heart, then cut off his head and bury him at the centre of a crossroads to stop him rising again. They could change shape and turn into bats or rats.

“All rot!” Seba snorted. “The hysterical rantings of superstitious fools.”

Larten had heard some of the tales before, but in relation to other monsters. He asked Seba if they were also real — demons, witches and the rest.

“Ghosts, yes,” Seba said seriously. “And witches. As for demons and the like… Well, in five hundred years, I have not seen any.”

He told Larten how he had been blooded as a child, and spoke of some of the countries he’d visited, and a few of the famous people he’d met. Larten didn’t recognise most of the names, but he didn’t admit that, not wanting to appear ignorant.

Finally, when Seba felt the boy had learnt enough about the world of vampires for one night, he reversed the question. “And you?” he asked gently. “Why are you here, so far from home and other humans?”

Larten’s first instinct was to make up a story – he didn’t want to confess to his terrible crime – but Seba had been honest with him and Larten didn’t want to lie in return.

“I killed a man,” Larten said hollowly, then told Seba the whole sorry tale. He cried while telling it. This was the first chance he’d had to think about what he’d lost, not just his best friend, but his parents, his brothers and sisters, his entire way of life. But he didn’t let the tears overwhelm him. He kept talking, even when it hurt to speak.

Seba nodded slowly when Larten had finished. “From what you say, that wretch of a man deserved to be killed. Aye, and long before you struck the fatal blow. But murder always hurts. It is right that we grieve when we kill. If we did not feel pain, we would kill more freely, and what would the world be like then?”

“I’m evil,” Larten moaned. “I’m going to hell when I die, or somewhere worse.”

“A place worse than hell?” Seba smiled grimly. “That would be a bad place indeed! But I do not think your soul is damned.”

“I stabbed Traz to death,” Larten said, wiping tears from his cheeks.

“In the heat of the moment,” Seba reminded him. “After he had slain your innocent friend. That is not the act of a vicious beast.”

“You don’t think it was wrong?” Larten whispered.

“Of course it was wrong,” Seba said. “You took a life that was not yours to take and that should haunt you far into the future. But virtually all people do wrong at some point. The truly evil are those who willingly follow the path of violence when they find themselves on it. You have a choice now. You can embrace the darkness within you and become a monster. Or you can reject it and try to lead a good life from this night on.”

“What if I can’t?” Larten croaked. “What if I enjoyed killing him?”

“Did you?” Seba asked.

Larten shook his head crookedly, then sighed and nodded. “I felt powerful. He was bigger than me, and he’d hurt me – all of us – so much. Part of me wanted to kill him. After I’d stabbed him, I leant forward to poke out his eyes. I wanted to torture him, even though he was dead.”

“But you restrained yourself?” Seba pressed.

“Aye. But it was hard.”

Seba pursed his lips, impressed by the boy’s honesty. “Vampires have a way of testing people,” he said. “We do it before we blood humans. Great power must only be given to those responsible enough to deal with it. If we blooded the weak or craven, they would wreak havoc on mankind.

“We can taste evil in a person’s blood,” Seba went on. “It has a sweet tang. It should be vile and bitter, but evil often comes wrapped in sweetness. The test is not foolproof. We sometimes make mistakes. But in most cases it is accurate. I can test you if you wish.”

Larten wasn’t sure he wanted to be tested. If the result went against him…

“I will do you no harm,” Seba promised. “If your blood is not to my liking, I will go my own way tomorrow and leave you be. Vampires do not judge humans or meddle in their affairs.”

Larten gulped, then nodded hesitantly. He was afraid of what the vampire might reveal, but he’d rather know the truth about himself than live with uncertainty.

“This will hurt slightly,” Seba said, taking the boy’s arm. Using one of his sharp nails, he made a small cut just above Larten’s elbow. As Larten winced, Seba put his mouth over the cut and sucked. For a worried second Larten thought he’d been tricked, that the vampire planned to drain him dry. But then Seba released him and swirled the blood around his mouth.

“Well?” Larten asked as Seba swallowed and narrowed his eyes.

“An interesting vintage,” Seba joked, but Larten knew nothing about wine so he only stared at the vampire blankly. Seba licked his lips. “You have mixed blood.”

Larten grew cold. “Does that mean I’m evil?”

“No,” Seba said. “There is an underlying sweetness, but it is not overwhelming. I would say you are strong-willed, easily enraged, perhaps bent towards violence more than most, prepared to do bad things if provoked. Of course we already knew that, given how you acted today. But I do not think the evil strain is dominant. You will need to tread cautiously through life and guard your emotions carefully if you wish to master them. But in my opinion, you can choose good.”

Larten was relieved but troubled. After today’s violent explosion, he wasn’t sure he could make those good choices. He recalled the way he had licked his lips, the disappointment that the dark part of him had felt when he stopped short of stabbing out Traz’s eyes.

“I will leave you now,” Seba said, rising.

“Where are you going?” Larten asked. He felt panic at the thought of being left alone in the crypt. It wasn’t fear of the dead, but fear that Seba might not return.

“I must hunt,” Seba said.

“For blood?”

“No. I drank last night. A vampire only needs to drink a couple of times a week. Less, in fact, but we prefer to drink small amounts often, rather than large amounts rarely. We can control our urges more easily that way. I go to find food now — like all creatures, we need to eat.”

“You’ll come back?” Larten asked, trying not to sound desperate.

“This is my room for the night,” Seba said evenly. “If I did not care to share it with you, I would ask you to leave. Only a fool puts himself out of his own home.”

Larten smiled and shivered. “Could you start a fire before you go?”

“No.” Seba squatted by the boy. “We light fires on occasion, but we do not rely on them. A vampire must be willing to endure discomfort. If you wish to be my assistant, you will need to accept that. You can take off your damp clothes, but ask no more of me than that.”

“Wait a minute,” Larten snapped. “Who said anything about me being your assistant? I don’t want to become a vampire.”

“Really?” Seba purred. “Then answer me this — where else will you go? Who will accept one of the damned other than a family of the cursed? Where will a creature of darkness hide if not in the shadows of the night?”

“Damned?” Larten echoed faintly. “I thought you said I wasn’t…”